


Dense plots and brittle shots

by BlueWithHappiness



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Genderbending, Incest, M/M, Rejection, Starvation, Suicide, daddy bilbo, the ring - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-02-20 16:05:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2434814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueWithHappiness/pseuds/BlueWithHappiness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various shots and plots that I may or may not do something with, at some point. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starvation; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunger was not something Bilbo was used to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!
> 
> Mattie, I gift this to thee. I hope things works out with your chosen ones!
> 
> Chapter warnings & Tags: Starvation!, body image, dismissal of a really big issue, hobbits need more food than dwarves, not a deathfic.

Bilbo had never gone hungry before. Not really. Even during fell winter when so many others had too little, Bilbo had not gone hungry. Looking back, he knew his parent's probably had. Sometimes Bilbo would forget a meal, here and there, and on some days, when the tingle in his feet become too much, he might even go an entire day without eating. But even then, he'd just been hungry, nothing a good meal couldn't solve.

When Bilbo had assumed that the dwarven three meals a day, and one of them on the horseback, would be bad, he'd had no idea how right he would be. It had been hardest at first. When the hunger coiled and twirled inside him. Making him irritable and prone to whine. But after the third week, he'd gotten used to the lightness of his head. Gotten used to the constant dizzy spells and feeling like his brain was covered with wool.

After the third month, he stopped feeling hungry at all. And some days, the thought of food, or even just the smell of it, had his insides churning so much he couldn't eat at all. He'd lost weight, too. It was painful, how Beorn had given him bandages, and how he'd stolen cloaks from the elves to be torn to strips, so he could bind the flapping skin of what once had been a pretty stomach out of the way.

Bilbo had never considered himself particularly attractive, but the roundness of his belly, the thickness of his thighs, bum and his chest had always been a point of pride to him. Attractive enough that even hobbits who had little use, or knowledge, of his wealth, asked for a walk.

He looked himself in the mirror in Lake-town, the first proper mirror since Rivendell, and had burst into tears. His cold may have been particularly bad, but it hot been the real reason for why he spent three days straight in bed. He was thin. His face hollow, eyes sunken. He could count his ribs, even if he'd worn thick mitts. His spine was so visible, and sharp looking, Bilbo almost feared touching it, lest it cut through his skin. His fingers, once so plump, were twigs stuck on a stick.

He looked like those who had died from hunger during Fell Winter.

After Lake-Town, Bilbo pushed his appearance aside. It didn't matter really, now did it, since he'd be burned to crisp shortly anyway. Perhaps like this, the dragon’s fire would make small time with him, instead of having to go through layer upon layer of fat.

Of course, it couldn't be so easy. Gandalf hadn't seemed worried when he saw Bilbo, at least, not until he saw him in daylight. But, uncharacteristically, he didn't say anything. Merely got him another bowl. Bilbo had not been able to eat it, and even the tiny bowl of stew he'd eaten was nearly too much for him, leaving him feeling ill and about to barf for the rest of the day.

Then the battle with the orcs, goblins and wargs happened, and Bilbo could honestly say that he'd stopped caring at that point. Too strung up with fear, uncertainty and guilt.

He had to admit that the fact that the elven healer even knew what he was, never the less that he'd been starved, was something Bilbo thought was a miracle in itself. Then the elf began to curse. Very loudly, and very angrily. Bilbo had never heard anyone with such a foul mouth, and he had travelled with thirteen dwarves for several months. Bilbo could only groan weakly when Oin came out of no where and the elf began cursing at him. Oin had looked affronted, up until he realised that the elf was angry on Bilbo's behalf.

The confused look Oin had give him was almost enough for Bilbo to laugh, bitterly. The elf had given him pain reducers, and Bilbo had to marvel at how much better he felt, from just that. His head felt clearer than it had since Beorn, and he could move without everything screaming their aches at him.

Oin had asked him, cutting the elf off, what ailed him.

"Starvation", Bilbo had croaked. "Long term." He'd smiled at Oin, a little dreamily, and told him that there was nothing that could be done. Had the starvation been short, like, just from Beorn's or Mirkwood, the elves probably could have done something. But with such a long, and slow starvation like this, there was absolutely nothing they could do. Other than feed him healing broths and hope for the best. Anything more could cause his tender, fragile insides to collapse.

"Since when?" Oin had asked. Bilbo felt sleep tug at him, and the world faded with his beloved home on his lips.

He never saw Oin with denial on his face and spurning on his tongue. Never heard him curse and swear at him, or see him pale when he really looked at Bilbo. Never saw the tears run down his face, or heard the loud sobbing when Oin realised what they had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Maybe. Did I use "spurning" right? I tried to use "refusement", but apparently that's French. Go figure. However, I found that "spurn" does cover the emotions I wanted Oin to express, so there's that(to reject with disdain or contempt, for anyone curious).
> 
> Bilbo's recovery would be long, and hard, and he would likely never be the same. But he would recover, eventually.


	2. Ghostly; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being rescued by a mysterious little creature had not been on Thorin's agenda, but nor had being trapped in Thranduil's dungeon been either. Actually, a number of things had not gone according to plan. A large number of things. As it is, the mystery saviour might just be the key to most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings & Tags: Imprisonment, Thranduil the jerk, Bilbo the burglar, barrels, panic attack, Mirkwood is a nasty place, barrel ride, elves have shitty guard systems

Thorin Oakenshield didn't know how long he had been in the depths of Thranduil's dungeon. The meals were irregular enough that he couldn't count on them as indicators, and the cloth covering his eyes and the wool in his ears stopped him seeing or hearing the elven guards walking their rounds.

He couldn't feel his arms any more, shackled as they were behind and above his head. He knew his body was bad off, knew that both the wounds from the cursed forest, and the elves, had taken infections. He knew he had lost too much blood, knew he would not last much longer.

But the knowledge felt distant. Like so much did. His worry for his sister-sons, and the company seemed so far away. He wondered where they were. Were they even alive, still? Or had they starved, or been eaten by the spiders? Were they dead? Lost? He didn't know. The elves, blast them, merely laughed or sneered whenever he asked. So he'd stopped. They weren't going to tell him anyway, so why waste his breath?

Why indeed. Perhaps it would be better if he bit his tongue, so he could die at his own means? Except, he'd tried that, hadn't he? The elves had caught him, and now he had his mouth locked with some sort of metal contraption, leaving a bar between his teeth. He could try to swallow his tongue, he supposed, but was that even possible?

Before he could get any further in his thoughts, the lock of his cell clunked open. He stiffened. He hated that he couldn't even hear the ruddy elves coming. He'd seen other cells on his way, but the wool was so that he could only hear the door of his own cell, none other.

Cool metal stroked his temple. His nostrils widened briefly to take in the smell of the elf. His heart jumped into his throat when his nose caught nothing. Cursed. The only way he knew the difference between the elves, and could prepare for what they would do, was by their smell, and this elf bore no stink at all.

The knife trailed down the side of his face, until it met the cloth, stroking it. He couldn't really hear the cloth get cut, but he felt the knife, touching, sliding, but not cutting into his skin. He didn't open his eyes. While it would be satisfying to open them and see, they had been in constant darkness since the third night, and he was not foolish enough to think his eyes would be fine after that. Dwarf or not dwarf.

The knife was gone. After several terrible moments, a small click made it's way through the wool and his arms fell. It took them a few moments before they began prickling angrily, but as much pain as they were in, he was thankful for it. Perhaps he would not lose them, after all. The shackles around his ankles were unlocked too, and the elf made a strange grumbling sound.

Except, the sound came from far too low to be an elf, nearly by Thorin's ear. A dwarf? Hope grasped him and he opened his eyes. They burned, so he closed them with a small sound. A tiny hand rubbed his legs. forcing blood through them again. After a few minutes, the hands left his legs and grasped his elbow, pulling him up.

The hand then took his right little finger, and tugged, making Thorin walk. They walked for a long while, before the dwarf pushed him into a wall.

"Stay," The voice made a chill run down Thorin's back. It was hoarse, raspy, and choked. And Thorin didn't recognise it at all. Unable to see, with immobile arms and wool still stuck in his ears, Thorin couldn't do anything but stay. He waited for a long while, before the dwarf came back. His arms had gone from prickling to burning, but he could move them, and he'd just plucked the wool out of his ears, unstrapped the wretched metal thing from his mouth, and fluttered his eyes open when the other came back. Only, it was not a dwarf. No dwarf at all.

It was a good head and a half shorted than Thorin, with dark, nearly black skin, which seemed off colour in places. It was bald, had unfocused, slightly glazed amber eyes. It's pupils covered nearly the entire iris. It was barefooted, and wore tattered clothes. The creature took Thorin's finger again, and pulled. Thorin couldn't help but stare at the back of the creature. It was slightly hunched, walked on the balls of his feet, and was tenser than the string of a bow. Head was constantly moving, in twitches and sudden turns. Thorin didn't know how it did it, but the creature somehow managed to not lead them straight to an elf. Or any elves at all.

The creature stopped abruptly before a door. It pushed its hand against the door frame, and said something elvish. Once, before Erebor's fall, Thorin had known elvish, but he remembered none of it now. The door opened with a soft glow. The creature had led him to another set of prison cells.

It let go of Thorin and put a hand into it's tattered vest, and pulled out a ring with an outrageous amount of keys. Thorin wondered bewildered how the creature had been able to keep that from rattling like a rattlesnake. The creature, head still twitching and turning as if it was attempting to catch all the sounds in the world, walked to one of the cells. It picked a seemingly random key, inserted it into the lock, and turned.

Thorin wondered what sort of magic the creature was pulling, as the door opened. The creature walked inside the cell, and the low cursing inside made Thorin walk over.

Dwalin's eyes were covered too, and his arms had been shackled as well. In front of him, and lowered. The creature had tucked away the ring of keys, and pulled out a knife. Only, in the small creature's hands, it looked like a sword. A short one, perhaps, but a sword none the less. It cut off Dwalin's blindfold, and jumped back, as if it expected to be hit, despite Dwalin still being securely shackled.

Dwalin blinked rapidly, and his eyes fell immediately on Thorin. Thorin smiled, as relieved tears left the grizzled warrior's eyes.

"You look like utter crap," said Dwalin thickly. Thorin shrugged. He opened his mouth to answer when the creature, a wild, terrified look in its eyes, took the blindfold from the floor, balled it up, and chuck it into Dwalin's mouth when he opened it again. Dwalin blinked in surprise, and possibly horror, and turned to look at the creature.

It, however, had gone back to the shackles. It poked them a few times, before tucking its knife, little sword, somewhere Thorin couldn't see and took out its keyring again. Dwalin's widening of eyes was satisfying enough that Thorin decided to not tease him too much about being gagged. Not much, anyway. The creature picked a key, put it in, and, to Thorin's mounting surprise, unlocked the shackles. The creature picked the shackles up and after examining them for a moment, tucked them away too.

Had it done the same to the shackles in Thorin's cell,Thorin wondered. Why, though? What use did it have with them?

The creature knelt, muscles tense and prepared to jolt away, as it began rubbing blood back into Dwalin's legs. Soon enough, it took Dwalin's elbow and pulled. Not enough to actually move the dwarf, but certainly enough that Dwalin got onto his feet. The creature pulled Dwalin to Thorin. Taking their littlest fingers, he pulled them out of the cell, and back the way they had previously come from.

Dwalin took the blindfold out of his mouth, and disgustedly threw it to the ground. The creature jumped. It let go of them, and stared at the cloth for a moment, before bending and picking it up. It balled it up again, and then slapped Dwalin. Soundlessly. Thorin had never even heard, or seen such a thing. Dwalin's brows furrowed angrily, and he opened his mouth, only to have the balled up blindfold showed back inn. The creature took their fingers again and led them away.

After seemingly an endless amount of hallways, sharp turns and doorways, they were, suddenly, in what appeared to be a wine cellar.

The creature led them to some barrels, and after letting Thorin go, began pushing and herding Dwalin into one of them. Dwalin didn't move until Thorin nodded, a sharp nod. Thorin moved into one of the empty barrels too. then the creature left.

Thorin opened his mouth several times to say something, but each time the terrified look on the creature when Dwalin dropped the blindfold flashed before his eyes, and he decided against it.

The creature came and left, came and left. Each time, it had one, or two dwarves with it. They all looked confused and a little dazed, looking at the creature as if it was miracle itself. Each and every one of them were guided, firmly and wordlessly to a barrel each. Thorin thought the creature was disturbingly familiar, but it wasn't until the last of the dwarves, his sister-sons, arrived that he realised. He stared wide eyed as Bilbo Baggins sealed each of the dwarves in their barrels. Thorin pulled out of his barrel as Bilbo sealed Kili into his barrel. Bilbo frowned at him.

"Bilbo," Thorin said softly, and grasped his upper arms. The hobbit froze, eyes wide and shocked. He stared at Thorin, then at Thorin's hands, and fainted. Thorin swore, but before he could attempt to wake the hobbit, he heard steps. They were far away, and calm, slow, but they were headed towards the cellar. Thorin lifted the hobbit into his arms, held him tightly to his body with one arm, grabbed the barrel lid, and then squirmed into his barrel, holding the lid as close to the barrel opening as he could.

Not to long after, elves came. One kicked Thorin's lid in place, causing his arm to sting painfully and him curse in his head. Then, the barrel began rolling. Thorin managed to be horrified as he realised Bilbo's plan, before his barrel was suddenly free falling and hitting the river waters.

\--

Bilbo woke before half the trip had been done. He began hyperventilating and whimpering. Thorin did as much as he could to calm him down, to reassure him, but Bilbo was deaf to his words, and didn't stop his panicked hits against the wood until Thorin, grasping the straws, started humming.

Whenever Thorin stopped, be it to breathe or because his throat felt like someone had poured diamond dust down it, the hobbit would begin panicking, hyperventilating and trying to hit his way out of the barrel. Don't ask him how, but at some point, Bilbo managed to turn, pressing his bony, hollow, and too warm face into Thorin's throat. Where his feverish, hot pants made Thorin miserable in a way he'd never even imagined the hobbit was capable of.

Eventually, they hit shore, and after gathering his strength, and a few hits, managed to get the lid off. Bilbo turned his face towards the sun, but otherwise made no motion of getting out. It took some manoeuvring, and a pained whine from Bilbo, before they were out. The hobbit seemed to have adorned slug-legs, as he couldn't stand, so Thorin laid him gently in the grass, then went back to aid his kinsmen out of their barrels.

Some, like Fili and Kili, had been fortunate, no leaks and with their barrels dipping the right way in the waters. While others, such as Dwalin, had ended upside down, and came out of the barrel half drowned. Like Bilbo, most didn't have the energy to do much but fall onto the ground and lay there after Thorin had pulled them out of the barrels.

Eventually however, they regained enough that they began rising and taking stock. Many simply stared at the limp form of the hobbit.

The gawker's jerked when Bilbo suddenly sat up. The got up and without even looking at them went to the barrels. He grabbed one, and began pulling. To no avail, as it was far to heavy for him. Ori came and took it for him. Bilbo let go, a confused scowl on his filthy face, before he went for another barrel. Bifur immediately went to help him.

When Gloin got Ori's barrel open, the dwarves stared. Out spilled supplies. Some were their weapons, some were cloths and even a few pouches of coins. Bilbo picked three barrels, all three containing something or another, leaving the company far better off than they had been before they were taken by the elves.

The dwarves cheered, and tried to thank Bilbo. But the hobbit never seemed to realise they were talking to him, even when they spoke his name. It was as if they didn't register to him at all. Worry and guilt gnawed at Thorin.

What had happened to the hobbit? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think?
> 
> \- This wasn't meant to come out until Thursday, but I'm having a bit of an arse day, so I thought I'd cheer myself up by posting early.


	3. Widow; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There had only been one of her, and he lost her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mattie prompted me with "widow". 
> 
> Chapter warnings: Major character death. Genderbent Character. ModernAU

Sometimes it was like there was a gaping hole in his chest, attempting to swallow everything, and anything that came near it.

He would think about her, of course, in those times. Would think about her smile, and how she only smiled like that around him. How there were different smiles too, just for him. Only him, ever only him.

The tiny smile when he was being silly, and she found him funny but hadn't wanted to encourage him. The crooked grin when he was being a goof, and they both knew it. The lopsided one, when she'd done something, which she found funny but he wouldn't like.

The one where only the corners of her mouth would curl, and the one where her grin split her face in two. The happy smile when he'd done something right, for a change, or the smile when he'd been dumb and apologised.

The smile she gave him in the morning, groggy and blissful, not wanting to be anywhere in the world, and the one right before she fell asleep, like she still couldn't believe it was true, couldn't believe her fortune.

The gleeful smile of pure mischief, and the sorrowful one. The sad, the angry. The smug, and the vengeful.

His nephews had once said that he brought the worst out of her, just like she brought the best out of him. She was so passionate, so full of life, whenever he was involved. Like colours being added after a life in monochrome, like sun after years and years of terrible storms.

They had also said that while he may have given her passion, she had given him life.

It had been a cold life, before her. Life and people had forced him to build walls of ice and metal, letting only his anger and rage show. He had been alive, but it had been a life of a scavenger. Always scattering towards the next meal, the next rest, the next victory or failure.

She had ended that. With her warm hearth and plentiful food. With her smile and cleverness. Her cunning and carefully hidden intelligence.

They had loathed each other, of course, at first. She had been an open book, while he had been a closed one. Seemingly too dissimilar and resentful to ever get along.

But tides had turned when she rescued him from an infamous serial killer, who had been attempting to finish the job, after successfully murdering both his grandfather and father. Stood between them, steady and unhesitatingly, the tiniest of blades in her hand and a grim posture.

It hadn't been love at first sight. It hadn't even been love then, when she foolishly stood between him and a known murderer.

It had been slow, hesitant, reluctant. But he had loved her, in the end. Loved her fiercely. More than he loved anything else.

And, to his great befuddlement, she had loved him back. Though her love was slower than his to grow.

They had married, only to have a great fight not a month later. She had turned on her heel, tears of rage streaming down her face.

He had thought he had seen the last of her then, and a void had opened in his chest. He'd realised, too late, that the world held no meaning without her. And if he had managed to drive away her, who loved him enough to bear him a daughter, then how could anyone ever love him?

He discovered, a scant month later, that his father's murderer had taken the love of his life. But she had not gone down alone.

Yes, sometimes, his heart felt like an open void, and his world become as lifeless and gray as it had been before he met her.

But then he'd see their daughter, their beautiful, wonderful daughter, and his void become plugged. His chest warmed. Colours returned.

He missed her, Lord above did he miss her. There weren’t a day, not a moment when he would not wonder what she would say about this, think about that. But he was thankful for the time they'd had, and the daughter they had brought to the world.

Some said that he needed to find a new mommy to their daughter, but he could never do that. Could never throw her memory into the mud like that, or disgrace her as such. Could never replace her, neither as mother or wife.

There had only been one Bilbo Baggins, and Thorin Oakenshield would never forget that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A oneshot. Mattie told me she initially thought it was a fic about Black Widow and Hawkeye. I suppose I can kinda see that. What do you think?


	4. Flour Angel; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love them as he might, he could not wait until they moved out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never liked it when writers make Frodo Bilbo's kid. It just rubs me the wrong way, so have some OC little ones instead.
> 
> Chapter warnings & tags: Daddy!Bilbo, OC!Child, Flour, mention of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins,

The chair croaked conversationally as he rocked on it. Worn fingers curled lightly around the knitting needles. Strange concept, knitting. The Took's had been doing it for generations, and most of the Shire had simply accepted it as one of the many strange, but handy, things such odd folk came up with. He wondered if they would be so accepting if they knew it to be a dwarven art.

Well, technically it was a human thing, but the dwarves had learned it from them, and the Tooks had learned it from the dwarves. Or some dwarf, at least. He'd learned it from his mother, of course. Being the favourite daughter of Grandpa "Old" Took, she had a thing or eighty to teach her only son.

He smiled. He wondered what she would have said to him, all those years back, when he returned from that wretched adventure. With her reputation, most assumed it was her who encouraged his adventurous behaviour as a child, but they could not have been further from it. Oh sure, she never outright forbid it, or spoke words of discouragement, but she never shared her own tales on the road. She taught him how to survive, but it was oblivious, looking back, that she loathed letting him go.

His father had often told her she worried too much. Bilbo supposed it was because Bungo had never been on a proper adventure, and only knew about the outside world through his books. His safe, non threatening, and often somewhat censored books. Which he read in his favourite chair in the study, or on the couch before the fireplace in the den.

His mother had worried, with right, since she, unlike him, had actually been out there. She knew what lurked in the shadows, what hid behind the trees and beneath the rocks.  She had her share of scars, both mental and physical, to tell the tale. Not that she ever did, of course. She'd been careful to never let Bilbo see.

Until she died, that is. Sometimes he wondered who she really was, and what had happened to her. Had she even been the woman he thought her to be? And what of his father, had he known the stories behind the scars?

"Daddy,"

He’d been sitting in the rocking chair beside the window of the den, when his little girl called from the kitchen. Smile returning, he put the knitting needles down on the side table, and went to check what the poor lass was doing now.

She was supposed to be outside, playing with her siblings, but she was forever fascinated with food. More with eating it, than making it, but Bilbo had long since stopped trying to quelch her appetite himself. Whereas he and her siblings could happily go with only four to seven meals per day, little Yarrow could, and would, eat up to thirteen times a day. Full meals, too, not just a snack or a little bite to eat either.

Bilbo had no idea where she put it all, as she was the thinnest and smallest of the brood.

True enough, she, as well as the entire kitchen, was covered in flour. The girl herself, lay on the floor, making what he assumed was a winged hobbit. Was there not a tale of such creatures, though? He couldn't quite remember. He would have to check.

He stopped in the door, and let an eyebrow rise.

Thorin, bless him, had at the very least taught him how simple expressions and silence could be utilised to the point of weaponizing it. It never ceased to make unwelcomed guests feel uncomfortable when he, politely as can be, barely spoke at all. It amused him to no end.

Yarrow smiled. Broadly and with her large, rounded ears flushing. Embarrassed and sheepish. He withheld a smile himself. She looked ridiculous covered in flour. Like some fauntlet ghost. She got up on her feet and looked down at the winged faunt on the floor. She then looked expectantly at Bilbo.

"It is very pretty," he said drily. She beamed. "But think of all the rolls this flour could have become," Her face fell and he almost felt guilty at how crushed she looked.

"I'll get the broom. When we're done cleaning this up, we'll start making lunch,"

Her expression lighted up so quickly Bilbo might have thought no heart had ever been broken. Snorting, he went to get the broom.

He loved the children, but some days he simply could not wait for them to move out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sentiment many parent's has, at some point.


	5. Cold; The Lord of the Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elves did not feel heat or cold, at least, not compared to other races. Yet his hands were cold. It was a miracle he was even alive, still, with how long they had been cold, and how icy everything felt recently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: Suicide! Character death! Major character death!

His hands were cold.

They trembled. He stared. As their maker and sought a design as alike them as possible, elves were dissimilar from other races in that they never were truly affected by heat or cold, not unless either something was wrenchingly wrong, or evil was about. In a way, the fact that he felt this cold, and had felt it for as long as he had, was an evil. He wondered what _their_ father would say, if he'd known. Or better yet, _their_ sister. 

It was strange to think that there had been a time he had not felt this cold. Stranger still, there had been a time he had not even known  _they_ existed. Foresight was something a number of elves were gifted with, and he was one of them. Except, his foresight usually leaned towards knowing or understanding someone on sight. Of course, during the time he'd met _them_ , he had been young, and not well trained. He had been able to sense _their_ importance and influence of his life, but not whether it would be good or bad. As such, he had let them lure him into a trap filled with horrors and endless pain. This wasn't known as the worst way to go without reason. 

Of course, there had been times where he wished he would have the courage to just put an end to it all. Either by a knife or breaking the promised Vow. But he'd always kept a sliver of hope for  _them_. He'd hoped they would notice, prayed they would realise, begged the Valar that they would regret. That maybe they would somehow discover that  _they_ actually  _did_ love him after all. 

With every decade that passed without any acknowledgement from their side, the more his hopes diminished, until only desperation kept him going.

It had been hard when Tauriel wept over the corpse of that dwarf. Because she had been a lone rock in his stormy seas, and to see her break down like that broke something in him that he'd though was long gone. Then, he'd befriended his own dwarf, and spent what was possibly the happiest years of his life with him, before Gimli died. 

If nothing else, he would never forgive them for that their Vows might have been the only thing keeping him and Gimly from one an other. He didn't know if he'd ever actually be attracted to the dwarf like that, scarred as he was, but he knew that the Vows would never have allowed it to occur, even if it could. To not have the chance, to not have the possibility, was torturous. Especially since he knew that if there was anyone in Middle-Earth who loved him as he had once loved  _them_ , it was Gimli. 

Gimli's death, and then later, the realisation that out of all of the Fellowship, only he remained alive. Cursed elven immortality.

He loved them, the Fellowship. Loved them as much as his broken heart was able to. From the tiniest, to the largest. All of them. He'd loved them for accepting him for who he was, and for distracting him so well for as long as they had been able. For allowing him to pretend his feet weren't blue with cold, or that the heat of a mere camp fire was enough to make his skin blister and burn. 

Let him pretend the sun wasn't boiling him alive, and the night made icicles of his insides. 

While they probably didn't know, they had let him pretend his Bonded, his Beloved, had not been ignoring his existence for over three hundred years. 

It was just a game, to  _them._ He had never heard them admit it, but he did not need to. After all, why else would they seduce the son of their father's least liked colleague? Why else would they play with him and lure him into marrying them in secret, and then laugh as he tried to keep it secret from both his people and his own father. The proof laid in their behaviour when he reached his majority. They had packed their things and vanished into the night. They ignored any letters he sent them, avoided him when he visited and generally pretended he did not exist whatsoever.

By Eru, he had tried so hard, for so long, to keep himself afloat. He was tired. Tired of pretending _they_ cared for him. Tired of pretending  _they_ had loved him. He was done.

A smile graced his lips. His father had actually offered Gimli his own place on the boat sailing to the unyielding lands. It was a generous offer, especially with fathers hatred of all things dwarven. But he had not wanted that. For if he and Gimli sailed, they would eventually meet  _them_. After so many years of pain, he would  _not_ give them the satisfaction of knowing anything about it, or to give them the chance to bully him more about it. 

He had loved them. With all his soul. All his heart. All of himself. It had not been enough. It shouldn't have been like this, but it was. They had never loved him. It was high time he stopped hoping they would. 

He slid slowly down the stone wall. Cold stones dug painfully into his back, leeching off what little heat remained in his body. He game it no mind as he leaned his back against his best friend's tomb. He should have done this before. Years ago, when Gimli had died.

He pressed himself as close to the tomb as he could, and hummed. The Song of Death was supposed to be sung, to be voiced and heard, but his throat was dry and cracked like clay under the sandy sun in the south, so he hummed. His mind danced to happier times. His hoarse, dull voice carrying out what little life he had left. 

The knife did not shake as he put it against the marriage bonds at his wrist. They may not have loved him, but he had loved them, and loath to admit it, even now, some part of him still did. So he sliced the bonds open, releasing them from the Vow. They would never be burdened by their youthful folly ever again. 

He let out a shaky breath as he lifted the knife to his throat. He paused a moment to adjust his grip. There was no hesitation however. If he stopped now, he would never do it. Maybe. Besides, it was not as if he had anything left. His people had long since Sailed, his friends were all dead and buried, and  _they_ had no ties to him any more. He did not possess the strength to live for himself, not any more.

Blood pooled in his mouth. It streamed down his throat, collarbone and chest, colouring his tunic with red. He felt his mind become blank. An unmistakeable silence surrounded him as he closed his eyes. Blood coated his lips as they froze in a smile.

After having spent most of his life in pain and turmoil, Legolas Greenleaf finally found peace. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for this to be put up a few days ago, to celebrate me and the new year, as well as a "get well" to Buddy who'd gotten herself ill during the holidays. Silly girl. 
> 
> So yeah. Legolas went into the deep end after his (two) husbands ditched him after he got legal. Who his shitty husbands are, I'll leave to your imagination(though I think I made it somewhat plain who it was. But then, as the author, everything seems clear to me). I might do a companion piece later, where I detail his husbands side of the story, and why they acted the way they did. But as it is, that'd be far in the future(if it ever happens), so until then, this'll be a standalone chappie. 
> 
> I originally meant for a RotG chappie to be here, but I haven't finished rewriting it yet, so it'll have to wait.


	6. Burn; Rise of the Guardians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heat surrounded him, settled within him, and maybe, just maybe, he could be at peace for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the long pause. My excuse is that I've been busy and my Buddy have seemingly not yet read the ficlet I sent her a month ago. I usually prefer to have her opinion of stuff before I post it, but I think I may have overestimated her interest in my fanfics. Meh. Oh well. Got tired of waiting for her, as I've got other things to do, so here, have a fic about getting drunk. Sorta.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Mentions of suicide. Drunk. Mention of death.

Liquid fire trickled down his throat. He relished in the burn, and how delightfully sluggish his mind had become.

There had been a time when he had feared the heat. Been scared it would harm him. There had been times when he sought the heat, too, wishing more than anything that it would hurt. He had found that while it did affect him, to various degrees, it was never really enough to leave proper permanent marks on him. He hadn't really understood it though, why he was so different from other winter, or cold natured spirits. 

He didn't have any idea of how many winter, or cold natured spirits he had witnessed die from heat. Some of them had melted, some had evaporated, and a few,-truly terrible ones, had burst in blames. He had learned the hard way that aside from himself, the only spirits of cold and winter that survived past their first season, were those who either were completely insane, or kept their distance from all things warm and cozy(usually, though, it was both). Even emotions were to be avoided, in their case. As even the faintest of warmish emotions could literally cause them to melt. Or evaporate. Or burst into flames. 

It had been among the first things he'd noticed when it came to other spirits like him. Of course, up until very recently, he'd thought the Man in the Moon had  _made_ him. Recent evidence proved otherwise, however. 

He lifted the formless bottle to his lips, and took a deep sip. He felt his insides of his throat get scalded, but paid it little heed. The heat was good. It would heal soon anyway, despite the tight leach he kept on his powers. He supposed he could let a sliver of it go, to heal his insides, but he knew that even just a smudge of cold might take the halfway pleasant warm buzz. 

As his body wasn't a mortal one, or even like most other spirits, drinking or eating had never been a thing he could do properly, so drinking alcohol wouldn't make him drunk. After numerous tests and experiments with heat and cold, he had found that while cold usually made him sharpen his attention and energize him, heat dulled it, made him lax. While some manners of heat could be rather unpleasant, calm and steady heat like this, sitting in front of glowing embers and sipping liquid fire, would eventually render him in a state reminiscent of being drunk.

Which was just what he needed right now.

Normally, he would have to make a hell of a snowstorm for his powers to be depleted enough for them to not slip through his control and freeze everything around him. He had pretty good control over them, if he said so himself, but they were always adjusting the temperature around him, and inside him, to the point where getting drunk on heat was near impossible. So with the recent revelation that Jack was a spirit _turned_ , rather than a spirit _made_ , it was perhaps best that Pitch had been attempting to ruin Easter and the Big Four, or else he might just have started the next ice age a little early.

At the time, he hadn't really managed to grasp the fact that he'd been human at some point. That he'd had a family, friends, a _life_. He had been so happy to learn he'd had somebody, at some point, who _loved_ him. Who cared for him. _Who saw him_. Too happy to realise what it meant for him.

However, with Pitch weakened and beaten, and his fellow Guardians finally letting him have a moment to himself, he could the knowledge sink properly in.

The man in the Moon had not _made_ him. He may have _turned_ Jack into a spirit, but Jack had a soul, had an existence _before_ Man in the Moon noticed him. Actually, the fact that Jack had been _turned_ , instead of _made_ , gave the last three hundred years a far darker edge.

Spirits had three ways to come into existence. The natural one, where nature somehow gathered enough spiritual mass and drifting emotions or something, to make vaguely sentient spirits like The Wind. The second way, and the most common one, was spirits _made_. A strong spirit or higher being would make a spirit by gathering spiritual mass and assigning it a purpose. The made spirit would know instinctively what to do, even if they often weren't smart or sentient enough to be conscious of it.

Jack had thought he was a spirit _made_. That The man in the Moon had gathered air, water and cold spiritual mass and given him the purpose of making winter lighter. Both in terms of stalling the worst of the storms and cold, as well as making it fun and enjoyable to be out in the snow.

But since he’d had a life before being a spirit, it meant he was _turned_. Except, that wasn't right either. Because _turned_ spirits were approached by a powerful spirit, or higher power, and given a choice. If they _wanted_ to become spirits or not. It they wanted too, they would invoke a contract with the spirit or higher power, where in exchange for a task, a role or something, the spirit or higher power would make the soon to be _turned_ spirit into a spirit.

The powerful spirit, or Higher Power, would then guide and mentor the newborn _turned_ , until such weren't needed any more.

The Man in the Moon had never invoked such a contract. Jack had never been given a task, a role, or a job. Jack hadn't been guided, or even helped in any way by the Man in the Moon for the last _three hundred years_. Jack had asked the Guardians, and while the Man in the Moon wasn't one for idle social visits, and mostly spoke to Sandy or North, he did pop by every decade or so, to tell the Guardians about this or that which they should watch out for, or if some part of the world needed special attention from them. 

It wouldn't have been too hard for the Moon spirit to send them Jack’s way, to help, to guide, or at least, sent one of them to alleviate the crushing loneliness Jack had suffered so often by.

But the Man in the Moon hadn't. He'd not even mentioned Jack, to any of them.

He had let Jack _rot_. Stew in his own misery, and brew within his own insanity. Jack knew that a lot of his infamy among mortal and spirits alike wasn't entirely deserved, that there were many spirits around the globe that happily blamed him for their own wrongdoings, but he knew most of it were entirely his own fault. He didn't know many times, or how long each time, his mind had simply snapped. He was vaguely aware that he'd frozen at least seven aggressively active volcanoes. had slaughtered more than a third of the more menacing _natural_ spirits, and had spent a few decades trying to have either the desert sun, or the polar night kill him.

The bottle was empty. Not that it mattered, at this point. The heat had settled hesitantly in his gut, quilling the core of cold there, and slowly diminishing his thoughts. Soon, his mind would enter blissful blankness, where his brain was simply too hot to function any more. He tossed some logs onto the embers, and watched happily as the fire bloomed.

He slumped over, slowly stretching on the couch before curling up. The elves had promised to keep the fire running until fall, at the very least. He knew some of the Guardians would probably wonder about his absence, and maybe even look for him, but he didn't particularly care. He just wanted some peace, for once. Some quiet from the raging turmoil and wrecked mind.

Just some peace, quiet and a long sleep undisturbed by whatever shitty thing the Man in the Moon decided to do next.

His thoughts faded away from his mind, and he succumbed to the exhaustion, the heat, and fell asleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a fictional writer, I think my best, and worst quality is that I take a simple matter, such as the prompt "Drunk, angsty Jack" and incorporating it with the gazillion headcannons I've made for the RotG universe and spirits in general. Such as how they are made, and the fact that it would be a very bad idea should Jack ever tell anyone ever about the fact that Manny never bothered to ask for his consent before turning him into a spirit.


	7. Released; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a moment, his heart lurched. He felt his entire world fall apart. Then in the next anger rose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fickled containing some of my most prominent headcannons. Which currently remain unexplained. Sorry about that. Also, be prepared for a bit of a "whoa, whOA, WAIT" at the end.

In the stories, battles were long, gruelling, but the hero eventually prevailed. In reality, the battle had been long, but more because the waves of orcs, goblins and wargs never ended. It took, at most, a few minutes, but mostly only moments to take down a goblin. Orcs could take a little more, with wargs taking the most. The fights had still fairly short. As such, the allied forces of men, elves and dwarves didn't have much issues. The problem was that where one orc, goblin or warg fell, three more took it's place. Like that sea creature whose heads multiplied every time you cut it off.*

It had been gruelling, and they had eventually prevailed, but Bilbo Baggins would certainly not claim victory.

His head hurt, his legs and arms were a fishnet of cuts, bruises and pains, his side hurt and he'd gotten a fairly nasty cut crossing his collarbone. He sighed and rubbed his stomach. His throat ached as well, but that hadn't been because of the battle. His throat was dry, in a way no water could quench. Now that he wasn't putting all his attention on the battle at hand, or the sickening madness that had taken the dwarves, his body was telling him something that had him almost dizzy with disbelief.

They had told him it wouldn't be possible, for him. Being Sireless usually had that consequence, and Tooks themselves often had that issue( and though everyone claimed it was because of their tendency of adventuring, this was the actual cause of the unrespectiveness of Tooks), and with a legacy like that, it had been assumed he would be onebred as well. Incapable of bearing children, but able to sire them.

He needed to tell Thorin. Had to tell him. Except, he couldn't.

"He doesn't want to see you, lad," Balin said softly, almost gently.

"Why?" Bilbo's throat closed up around the word, making it hard to speak, to even breathe.

"He, ah, doesn't want to see the face of a betrayer,"

For a moment, his heart lurched. He felt his entire world fall apart. Then in the next anger _rose_.

So that was it? After everything he had done, every single time he had rescued their hairy butts, this was _it_? Thorin had promised that no ills would ever come between them, to always listen to Bilbo's words, and Bilbo had believed him. Had _believed_ him and foolishly thrown all precaution and hobbit wisdom out the window.

And now he paid the price. With a trembling hand Bilbo reached up into his hair, and did something he might regret one day. After the first night, Thorin had braided his hair. The braid had been skilfully made, and carefully hidden amongst Bilbo's ever growing curls.

Bilbo kept his eyes on Balin, and took a certain amount of dark satisfaction from the outright horrified and baffled expression the old dwarf wore.

"By this," Bilbo said, tugging the bead at the end. "I release Thorin Oakenshield from any duties towards me," he dropped the bead, and crunched it with his heel. The bead made a soft sound of dissaproval as it was destroyed.

"With this, I withdraw my vow towards the King under the Mountain." He carefully combed the braid out with his fingers. "With this, I unravel the tie that bonds myself and Thorin Oakenshield together." Taking out Sting, still covered in blood, he took the hair from the braid in one hand, and used Sting to cut it all off.

"With this, what once was, what is, and what could have been, has been severed." He took his foot off of the ruined bead and dropped the hair onto it. The hair didn't flutter or fall to the ground as it should, but fell straight down, as if they were made out of metal, not hair. 

"With this," Bilbo said, a heaviness in his voice which Balin had never heard before. "May the Lady bless my decision," he had barely said it, before the hair suddenly caught aflame. Balin jumped, staring wide eyed at the flames. Before the dwarf had time to collect himself, and try to put them out, they suddenly vanished. Bilbo had paled, and his face was pinched and pained, but he had expected that. The Lady wasn't too fond of Outsiders, and as Thorin was much of an Outsider as you could possibly get.

He bent down, studied the stone floor for a moment, then nodded sadly. When he rose he looked solemnly at Balin.

"The Lady has spoken," Bilbo said. "The king will never see, or hear me ever again, unless he proves himself before the Lady, and she forgives him for his sin."  
He turned then, and marched off, fighting tears.

He had known the Lady wouldn't like their union. She loathed Outsiders, and the more hurt her people became because of them, the less she liked them. His father had once told him that one of the reasons hobbits don't leave the Shire much, was because they feared Outsiders would anger the Lady enough to wake her from her slumber.

Hobbits might not be fond of Outsiders, and they rarely dealt with them, if they could, but that didn't mean they wanted to be alone in the world, either.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering tying this ficlet to the "Flour Angel"-verse. Of course, if I do, I'll have to tidy up that scene a little. Change a few words or such. What do you think?
> 
>  
> 
> *The sea monster mentioned is a hydra. Bilbo knows a butt-load of stuff, and given time he'd probably remember that(or the hobbit name for it), but he's a bit occupied being pregnant, and Thorin being a giant buttface.


	8. Change; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf had told her this Adventure would change her. And that she might not return from it. She highly doubted this was what he had meant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days I'll start a plot line or an idea which is just happy and fluff. And stick to it. Instead of jumping straight to the tight rope of misery and despair.
> 
> Chapter warning: This is an answer fic. Meaning it was the answer to a fanfic of which I read. 
> 
> In this case my general frustration at Thorin, and him being a buttface.

"We deserve to know." His voice echoed through the silent room. The others had stopped talking, and turned to look at them almost at once when Thorin had first demanded to know what it meant for her, to have broken things off with Fili.

For a moment, she entertained the thought of telling them. Telling them that by sleeping with Fili, accidentally making a Soul-Bond with him, and then being pressured and forced to break it off would slowly drive her insane. That the broken shards of their bond would tear into her, tearing everything she was, and everything she had ever been apart until she was nothing but an empty shell. She even considered telling them that if all of this didn't end her, she would morph, change and become a goblin. Because that was the consequences of the breaking of a soul-bond.

Well, that wasn't entirely right. She had broken bonds before, even Soul-Bonds. But she had never done so under duress. And there had never been without a due reason and breaking from both ends. And most importantly, she had never broken a bond with anyone, whilst carrying their child under her breast. And since it was oblivious to her that while Fili found it a little surprising that merely sleeping with someone would tie you to them, according to hobbit customs, he'd not been adverse to it, and had even become somewhat tender towards her, as of late; and Bilbo doubted she'd ever been as fond of any other bond-mates she'd had over the years, as she was with Fili. So to have their bond severed was unnatural.

Unnatural to the point where it set a deadline to her very life. That even if she somehow managed to not be insane, empty, or goblin by the time her unborn reached their majority, she was not likely to live any longer. Of course, with the child being a halfling, rather than hobbit, it would probably give her nearer fifty years, rather than thirty-three, to struggle for her sanity and sense of self. It was perhaps the most tempting to tell them that there was no way around it, either. Within fifty years, she _would_ die, without any doubt. There were no cures to a broken bond, especially one which had been formed by accident and then seared without due cause. Tempting to tell them that even if she got a new soul-bond right now, it wouldn't help. Even if it was with Fili.

It was very tempting indeed. 

But the rights Thorin -or any member of the company- might have had to a truthful answer, they gave up when they wouldn't listen to her pleas of reconsideration, to at least wait until the mountain had been reclaimed. What right they had to any answer at all they laid down when none of them bothered to ask her why it was so important to her, or what it meant to her, before now. 

"On what grounds," her voice didn't betray her outrage, calm and almost sweet as it was."Does His Highness, make claim on his demand?" She kept her eyes on Thorin, but she saw from the corner of her eye that several dwarves flinched at her tone and words. Kili looked ready to cry. 

Thorin's face took a harsh, stern expression, and he straightned his back. Bilbo felt a snarl threaten to break out when he  _dared_ look down his unreasonably straight nose at her. 

"I am King under the Mountain, leader of this Company, and Fili is my heir. Such is my claim." 

Bilbo felt light headed.  _That_ was his claim? Lady above! If he had claimed to be her friend, or even just concerned about her, she might have spoken lies to them, told them everything was fine and that while it did have some unpleasant consequences she'd rather not speak in public about, there was nothing she couldn't handle. Bilbo felt something open within her, and she was sure that had her mother not had her Sealed, she would have burst into flames. 

"His Majesty is indeed King, of  _Dwarves._ Hobbits, or even halflings, do  _not_ have Kings, and as I have not sworn any fealty towards His Highness, nor do I ever intend to, your word is not my law." Her eyes bore into his. Unrelenting and unhesitating.

"While your claim as Employer does hold weight," she let him have a moment of triumph before she continued. "My contract is a pathetic excuse of a legal document, and does not bind me to reveal anything about my person, or reveal secrets of my people that would cause them harm or compromise them in any way or manner. Further more, my contract will soon be at end, so any consequences that may or may not occur, with do so after it has been fulfilled. As such, it does not bear any importance to this quest or go against my contract as Burglar. Not a Betrayer."

It was almost worth keeping her grief, betrayal and anger from her voice, if only to see Thorin step back as if slapped.

"As for Fili being your heir," she gave an unladylike snort. "It bears even less matter than any other of your claims, King under the Mountain. The backlash of the unnaturally broken soul-bond will fall upon _me_ , and me alone. As such, it does not stop neither his Majesty from being king, nor Prince Fili from being your heir. And, seeing as I have absolutely no intentions of staying after my contract as your employee has ended, you will not be forced to suffer through any consequences a broken soul-bond may or may not have upon myself." 

"So, King under the Mountain, do you still claim grounds on your demand?"

"I  _need_ to know." He told her, voice firm but eyes desperate. He did, too. Or thought he did. A smile curled her lips unbidden. 

"No you don't." Bilbo said softly. Her anger had fallen back, rage subdued. "You have not needed to know anything about me, or my people, in order to judge me, nor to make decisions in spite of me and  _my_ needs." She shook her head.

"You have made it strikingly clear, King under the Mountain, that neither I nor my needs matter to you. The only thing you care for, is the well-being of your people. I can respect that." When he opened his mouth, a shattered, disturbed expression marring his face, she added;"I am merely a  _burglar_ , Your Highness. Not one of your people."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say here, aside from the fact that I have a bad, bad habit of inserting my own headcannons everywhere, and half tie all my fics into loosely the same universe.
> 
> Edit(130315): The original fiction maker was approached and has yet to demand that I take this down. If anyone would like check it out, it's by NovusArs and can be found at http://archiveofourown.org/works/743654  
> It's really amazing and I really, really recommend it.


	9. About that; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn't sure what to think, honestly. After all, it wasn't everyday you witnessed two brother's kissing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Probably in the Calls and Mark series. Sometime after Rivendell, but before they got to Mirkwood.
> 
> Part of my birthday present to Mattie.
> 
> Chapter warnings&tags: Mentions of incest, homophobia, Fili/Kili

"Is anything bothering ya?"

Bilbo stilled in his movements. The two of them were on watch, and with everyone sleeping this might be the only time he could ask about it. He glanced at Bofur, and seeing him watching Bilbo, he nodded.

The silence stretched. Bilbo's mind raced, how could he ask. It wasn't _normal_ what he'd seen, but what if it was a dwarven thing? Or maybe the boy's were just doing it to trick him, it would be like them, after all. And besides, what if it was exactly like what he'd seen, but they were trying to keep it a secret? While the _unnaturalness_ of it was overwhelming, to the point of sickness, it was not his place to reveal them, now was it?

"Is it about Fili and Kili, then?" There was mirth in Bofur's voice. When Bilbo dared shoot him a stare, he was smiling. Swallowing around the thickness in his throat, he said;

"I saw them kiss," Bilbo admitted in a low voice. He startled violently when one of the sleeping bodies behind them moved. He turned his upper body to stare, but it seemed like none among the snoring dwarves had woken. Good.

"What about it?" Bofur's voice was calm, a little too casual, and there was a sharpness to it which Bilbo didn't like. A dwarven thing, then maybe? Or were Bofur being protective?

"Is it- Is it normal for dwarves, to be kissing your own brother?"

His question was met with silence, but when Bilbo managed to tear his gaze from the wringing hands in his lap, and look at Bofur, the dwarf smiled. It looked pinched and pained.

"Not particularly," Bofur hedged. He pulled his shoulder in a half-hearted and somewhat uncertain shrug. When Bilbo didn't look away, he sighed.

"Usually, dwarves comes in two's, and it's not uncommon for them to be handsy, even if they're brother's."

Bofur grimaced when he saw the confusion written in Bilbo's face.

"With how little dams we have, or rather, how few of them are willing to settle down, dwarrow usually court them in two's. Usually brothers, so that there won't be any questions about heir's and such. So for Fili and Kili to be handsy ain't much out of the ordinary," Bofur trailed off, as if uncertain how much more he could reveal. Bloody dwarves and their ever accursed secrets.

"But," Bilbo prompted.

Bofur's shoulders slumped. "Their closeness would be frowned upon, by some." he said with a small amount of resentment in his voice.

"Dwarrows being with dwarrows ain't much anyone's business, but there's been a rise in the laws against them, in other settlements. Thorin has never been much in favour of those laws, of course, but if it became known how close Fili and Kili actually are, it could become an issue."

"That's not the problem, is it?"

Bofur dragged a hand across his face tiredly. "Ya notice too much, Bilbo." He said.

"Oh, well, I didn't mean-"

"Tis fine," Bofur took a few deep breaths, then said. "They're royal, and heir's to the thrown. Not enough with that, but they're each other's One, which will be a bother and a half should we get the mountain back from the winged furnace,"

Bilbo grimaced at him, not particularly liking being reminded of that comparison.

"One?"

Bofur nodded thoughtfully. "Dwarrow have two paths of the heart. Our Voice, and our Choice. Well, they call it a choice, but it ain't. Not really. Our Voice is our Heart-Singer, the person we're meant to be with.

But finding them is often more trouble than most can be bothered with, especially since there's never any certainty that ya'll find them, even if ya look. So they choose to find someone on their own, and if they do, they become the Choice for the One they want to spent the rest of their lives with."

Befuddlement flooded him. "They _chose_ each other?" He asked, a little horrified.

"Is tha' gonna be a pro'lem?" Bofur's eyes were narrow, glaring. Bilbo swallowed and looked away. The dwarf made a sound of understanding, acceptance, but also one laced with defeat and disappointment. Bilbo felt his heart clench and throat snare in.

He had problems with it. Many. Hobbits being as they were, he didn't particularly care that they were both male. Hobbits didn't have much in the way of royalty, so that wasn't something he cared for either. Besides, from what he understood of dwarven physiology, them both being male meant they couldn't breed. So it was neither their social status, nor their gender Bilbo had problems with.

It was the closeness of their relation he couldn't wrap his head around. Well, yeah, sure, sometimes it happened in the Shire that second, or third cousins married, and there was that scandal a few years ago with a pair of first cousins, but siblings? Unheard of. Much worse than any scandal surrounding any marriages or cases of infertility he had ever heard of. However...

"It's not really my place," He concluded eventually. Bofur jerked. He'd not expected Bilbo to say anything more. "-to have an opinion either way."

He glanced at Bofur. The dwarf looked at him with wide eyes.

"I cannot claim to be comfortable, them being brothers. It's not done in the Shire, not done at all. But it seems most of what is, isn't by anyone else, so who am I to judge anyone at all? Besides, aside from that kiss, which I walked inn on, mind you, I have not seen or noticed them behave particularly indecent, so I don't think it really matters, what I think or not."

"Yer not going to bother them about it, then?"

"If they continue as they have, I don't think so, no."

"But ya do have issues with it, laddie?"

Hadn't Bilbo already said so?

"Yes. But not with their gender or their line of royalty, just them being brothers."

"What's wrong with that?" Bofur sounded agitated. Bilbo wondered if Bofur had simply decided he was going to leave this conversation mad at Bilbo, no matter what Bilbo said.

"They are brothers," he said slowly.

"So what?" Bofur challenged, scowling.

Shifting a little on the log, he wondered what he'd said now. He'd already told Bofur he wouldn't bother Fili and Kili, and what issues he had, he would keep to himself. Wasn't that enough?

"Is it," he hesitated, wondering if Bofur really had decided to be angry no matter what. "Is it normal to, eh, pair up with close relatives, among dwarves?"

"I told ya," Bofur's voice tingled with annoyance. "we come in two's"

"What?"

"Don't ya hobbits have two to the dam?"

It took a moment for Bilbo's confused mind to understand what Bofur implied.

"What? No! Lady above, how improper!" His face _burned_.

For a moment, Bofur glared, then his face broke into laugher. The dratted dwarf didn't stop, either, and would break into giggles whenever he dared to look at Bilbo. Bilbo huffed, and after putting it behind his ear to never court any he-dwarves, put the matter out of his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Culture clash, yay! Bilbo and Bofur said a lot, both of them, and I think it'll take them some time to sort through what was actually said. 
> 
> If anyone wonders, the reason Bofur is so defensive about everything, it's because he's had to deal with people being arseholes all the way about these sort of things. But this is probably the first time he's actually sat someone down and talked about it, so he might never have actually realised that just because it's perfectly common and normal among dwarrows, it's not so for anyone else. 
> 
> His laugher at the end, mind, is a mostly shock and horror.
> 
> And Bilbo was more focused on clearing up what's up with Fili and Kili, and his own thoughts/feelings about it, than anything else, which is why he didn't really catch onto the whole "come in two's" thing. 
> 
> Should be noted that while this probably is in the Call and Mark series, it's definitely in the "Released" and "Flour Angel" Verse. 
> 
> It may entertain some of you to know my computer seems a bit against me writing, since it has forcefully stopped my writing twice now, once during editing, and an other time during the first draft writing. Really annoying. Fortunately I've still got the unedited chapter somewhere, and I think I have some notes from the undrafted chappie somewhere. If anyone is curious, the names of those chappies were "Filth" and "Howl".
> 
> One day I'll learn the s'. One day.


	10. Throb; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They are using you" the dragon screamed. It didn't take long for the dwarves to prove him right, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by two prompts at the Hobbit Kink Meme. 
> 
> Became something of an exercise in describing pain. 
> 
> Part of my birthday present for Mattie. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: PAIN! BILBO IS IN PAIN!  
> I'm not sure if a gore tag is needed, so just remember BILBO IN PAIN.

"Well, well, well,"

Pain laced his back, sides, and head. there was a throbbing, searing, and stabbing pain from his leg.

"What do we have here,"

Air filled with rotten meat and sulphur blew over him. Sickness threatened at the back of his throat. The air was hot, scorching. Bilbo opened his mouth to scream. But the air was so dry from the dragon's breath his mouth was to dry to anything to come out. When Thorin's sword had made Bilbo accidentally fall down the stairs, he'd curled up. When his leg had shattered upon meeting the landing wrong, Bilbo _had_ screamed. Arched back, and curled up again and again as pain tore through him. More intense than anything ever had.

"I told you, little thief,"

He clenched his eyes tightly together and panted. His chest heaved as his lungs desperately tried to draw in the needed air. However, Smaug was still talking, still breathing inn the air Bilbo desperately needed.

"Dwarves are greedy, filthy things,"

If Bilbo's mind hadn't been overwhelmed by the pain, he might have noticed the almost sympathetic tone in the dragons voice. If he had, he might have become frightened. After all, dragons were not known for their sympathy.

"Don't worry," the dragon soothed, a claw tearing though Bilbo's clothes. "I will show them the wrong in their ways, in the mean time,"

Bilbo gasped, eyes opening, wide and unseeing, as he was pushed onto his back. Two claws pulled Bilbo's body apart, leaving him stretched out on the stone landing. The claws kept him still, and outstretched, even as his body twitched and cramped.

"To ensure you will not run away, Barrel-Rider," 

Something cold pressed against his chest. For a moment Bilbo barely registered it, but then the pressure become harder, become crushing. It pressed and pressed. Bilbo's mouth opened again, his scream stolen away from him as something was forcefully pushed inside his chest, braking bones and squeezing the last of air out of him.

"There, perfect. Now lay here until I return. Trust me, Little Thief, I shall enjoy you later."

Bilbo's mind was blank, pain too consuming. He didn't notice the dragon leaving, but he did notice being able to breathe again. Somewhat, anyway. Too deep breaths made his chest sting and throb.

Everything felt heavy. Blackness seeped into his vision, coating the corners of his eyes with darkness, until he finally gives up the fight. His head falls to the side, his taunt body relaxing slightly, but not entirely, as his body grasps at straws, trying to not calling into the eternal sleep that danced around the corner.  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaug just pressed the Arkenstone into Bilbo's chest. Yeah. Just imagine the reaction the dwarves will have when they find Bilbo. Especially when they realise Smaug has the last laugh, for even in death he haunts them and reminds them of their guilt. For Bilbo withdraws from them, looking at them with mistrustful, bitter, and frightened eyes. 
> 
> I'm going to bed now, though. My eyes are crossing. Maybe one day I'll decide to not write and post stuff in the middle of the night. Maybe. And I'll probably continue this. At some point. Maybe. Ugh. Will have to look over this tomorrow too, for spelling and such. But that's an issue for tomorrow.


	11. Skirts; The Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hadn't exactly hidden it. But then, wasn't the best kept secrets those nobody spoke about? The ones hidden in plain sight with no attempts of secrecy? Still, it was rather silly that none of them noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a hobbit kink meme prompt. One day I'll remember to tag the page, instead of just jotting down the prompts. When I get proper access to internet, I'll see if I can't hunt down the prompt(s).
> 
> Part of my birthday present to Mattie.
> 
> Chapter tags: Genderbend, always a girl!Bilbo, culture clash, inappropriate mention of time.

Bilbo had never thought she'd miss wearing skirts. For while she hadn't minded wearing such every now and again, and indeed liked wearing them very much the few times she did, she had only ever liked wearing them rarely. It was like pancakes. They were delicious because she didn't get to eat them everyday.

However, after months and months and _months_ , she simply couldn't get enough of it. In some manner, she supposed it was among the few reasons why Hobbitun hadn't made more of a fuss when she returned. Everyone seemed to think she was more hobbit now than she had been when she left.

It was ridiculous, of course, but she didn't strive to prove them otherwise. Beyond that, she doubted she'd ever take to wearing trousers again. Sometimes she couldn't even bear watching some of the lads wearing them. It reminded her of unwashed bodies and filth caked up her legs. Yuck.

Never mind that the last time she wore trousers, she ended up on an adventure that had her drenched in dragon blood. Nope. Skirts it was. She knew, at the back of her mind, that one day she'd get tired of wearing skirts and dresses. And that one day, she would wear trousers again. But today was not that day. Not any day, if she had anything to do with it.

Had Bilbo known what a commotion her skirt-wearing would bring, she might have just sucked it up and worn trousers, just for the day.

* * *

  
The knock came three quarters to Tea. Bilbo pursed her lips a little, frowning, even as she wiped her hands on her apron and hurried to the door. The last time one of her neighbours came so untimely, she had opened the door covered in fur - she'd been making rabbit stew, with self hunted rabbits - so few dared to do so again. It could be Aunt Mirabell, who meant well, but was obsessed, now more than ever, to have Bilbo married off to some Proudfoot, Took, or Brandubuck. She seemed to think those were the only ones whom could handle Bilbo.

Though Bilbo thought she was perfectly able to handle her self, thank you very much!

She opened the door, and brightened. Smile threatening to split her face apart.

"Kili! Bofur! Dori! What a welcome sight you three are! Come inn, come inn! Wipe your boots there, please. Or take them off. There's some slippers over there if you'd like. Let me take your cloaks and hoods, there, good," Bilbo hung the cloaks and hoods up on the hooks on the wall, and waved them inn. They all seemed without words, however, only smiling faintly, baffled expressions on their faces.

"Tea is a little off, yet, but maybe some cheese? I made some biscuits earlier that goes marvellously with one of my better stored cheeses. Just you wait. You know where the den is, it won't be but a moment!" Bilbo dashed off, already mentally taking stock of what her pantries held. She would have to go to the market tomorrow morning, but her stores should hold until then. Dwarves might be big eaters, but they didn't eat often, so they would most likely not join her in most of her meals. Heck, she could probably just feed them Tea, Dinner and Supper, and they'd be fine. Strange creatures, dwarves.

As with much of the less pleasant things about their Adventure, Bilbo skilfully ignored the fact that there had been times when they'd had to do with less than one proper meal a day, and she'd managed better than most of the dwarves. She also ignored that during their stay within Thranduil's palace, Bilbo hadn't really had any proper meals at all. Just a little here, and a little there.

By the time Bilbo got back to her guests, tray laden with cheese and biscuits, they had found their way to the den. Kili was poking at the fireplace, trying to find some embers to make a fire with. Bofur was actually sitting down, while Dori was examining a doily on top of a cabinet.

"There," she said, announcing herself. Bofur smiled uncertainly at her, while Dori and Kili both startled. Bilbo felt her smile fall a little. What was wrong with them?

"Sit down," She said instead of voicing her own thoughts. Dori and Kili both sat down, and Bilbo did frown when Kili's eyes shied away from her, redness straining his cheeks. The fact that Kili sat entirely still, not even fidgeting, told her something was really wrong. She put the tray onto the table and sat down herself. The three didn't say anything, looking away from her.

"What is it?" She asked. It wasn't polite, and certainly not done, but they weren't hobbits, so they wouldn't gossip to anyone about it. To her confusion, Kili flushed bright red, and the other two began to flush as well. They sat in silence for a while, until Bilbo felt her patience run out. She checked over her clothes. They hadn't accidentally been stuck in her smallclothes, nor did they show an inappropriate amount of form or skin. She knew her hair and face wasn't marred or untidy, as there was a mirror in the entryway and she'd checked before she opened the door.

"I have a broom," she said in the end. "I could whack the answers out of you."

"Please don't!" Kili burst out, glanced at her, and turned impossibly redder.

"It's just, well, yer clothes." Bofur said, still refusing to look at her.

"What about them?" She asked. Was this a dwarf thing again? She hoped they wouldn't insist on her wearing shoes again. Honestly. They were just _feet_.

"I take it is allowed for lads to wear skirts, among hobbits?" Dori said, staring firmly at the doily he'd been looking at previously.

"As much as it is allowed for lasses to wear trousers," Bilbo said, feeling a strange unease breeze through her.

"I see. Well, it is considered a bit, ah, deviant, to do so, for dwarrow," Dori continued, voice carrying a tightness to it.

"I don't really see why." Bilbo wondered if blood would begin to seep through Kili's skin, if his face heated more up. Deciding to avoid finding out, she continued.

"More importantly, I don't really see why this is an issue now. I wore trousers on the Adventure, after all. Why is me wearing skirts so different?"

"Because skirts are for girls!" Kili blurted.

"But I am a girl, so I really don't-" Bilbo cut off, as all three snapped their heads to her. Kili's face went from the brightest tomato red, to pale new fallen snow in a moment. Bofur and Dori were not much better, though Bofur's skin took a green hue, while Dori's took a rather unhealthy gray one. Bilbo felt like she should feel insulted.

" _What_?"

"Yer, eh, a lass?" Bofur sounded frightened for some reason. When Bilbo nodded, uncertain about all this fuss, the three dwarves shared a look.

"Oh dear," Dori said.

For a moment Bilbo sat there, confused, then everything clicked into place, and she laughed. She tried to hide it behind her hand, but loud guffs still managed to escape. The dwarves flushed again, but let her laugh. Her amusement that despite months of travelling together, none of them had noticed she was a lass, was better than if she got indignant and angry, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's rather sad that I'm not too keen on writing fem!Bilbo in a proper story setting, because this was really fun! 
> 
> If anyone wonders why I use tiny ficlets as a birthday present, it's because I originally planned on writing out a proper story thing containing Tauriel, Ori, and Bilbo as perspective holders, but my muse don't agree with me writing it. So I'm stuck with tiny bitties until I can wrench the power away from the blasted mental construction and actually write as I want to.

**Author's Note:**

> If you spot any fails when it comes to grammar or spelling, or how a word has been used, please tell me. Constructive criticism is, of course, welcomed.


End file.
